


What is this feeling?

by spiderstanspiderstan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harley was 10 in Iron Man 3 and is therefore 13 now, insp: a song from wicked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderstanspiderstan/pseuds/spiderstanspiderstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's two favourite baby geniuses meet at his newest venture- A STEM-based summer camp in the heart of New York City. They instantly despise eachother. </p><p>On hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loathing, unadulterated loathing

Harley had never been so incredibly _disappointed_ in his life.

He’d been told he’d be roommates with Spider-man, which, _awesome_.

The boy- ‘cause he was only a little older than Harley was- who was apparently Spider-man, was a bit of a let-down out of costume. He was about the same height Harley was, and looked almost completely average.

And he was _freaking out_ .

“You can’t just _tell people_ !” He was half-yelling, his hands in his hair. “What part of _secret identity_ did you not understand? Oh, wait. The _secret_ part. The part where it’s a _secret,_ noun, a piece of information that is only known by one person or a few people and should not be told to others!”

Harley was leaning against the wall to one side of the door to the room he was sharing with Spider-man, watching him have a minor mental breakdown.

“Harley isn’t going to tattle to the press.” Tony Stark said. “He’s been keeping secrets for the Avengers since he was ten. You’re being paranoid, Peter.”

Spider-boy slumped dramatically against the wall, and sank to the floor. He buried his face in his hands.

“May knows. _You_ know. And now a random guy from fucking  _Mississippi_  knows!” He said, muffled. “He’s gonna go home and tell his sister-cousins and all his farm friends! And then _everyone_ will know!”

“First of all,” Harley interjected. “I’m from Tennessee. Second of all, you can trust me. I signed a NDA.”

Spider-boy glared up at him from the floor.

“You’re thirteen,” He said. “You’re in _middle school._ Middle schoolers gossip more than _anyone_ . All it takes is you snapchatting one of your weird farm-child friends and them telling _their_ weird farm-child friends, and then someone’ll tweet it and then _the whole world will know_.”  

Wow, did Harley _not_ want to room with this guy.

“Nobody's _that_ interested in you,” He snapped back. “You’ve been in the news like, what, twice? Nobody cares. Not even middle schoolers.”

“Tony,” Peter said. “ _Please_ don’t make me share with this guy.”

“ _Kids_ ,” Tony said, rolling his eyes at their drama. “Calm down. You’ll get used to each other.”

 _Getting used to_ the most irritating superhuman alive was not how Harley wanted to spend his six weeks in wonderland. If Peter ruined his time at _the best science camp ever_ , he was going to _kill_ him, Spider-man or no.

Peter stood up, glaring at Harley.

“If you say _one word_ ,” He hissed. “To _anyone_ , I will web you to the ceiling and liquify your insides.”

Holy shit.

“He can’t actually do that,” Tony said. “The liquefaction thing. Webbing you to the ceiling could happen, but _won’t_ , because I’m in loco parentis and absolutely not above grounding people.”

“Cool.” Harley said, completely deadpan. “Peter, are you done whining? Can we go in our room now?”

The room turned out to be really, _really_ cool. The view was _stunning_ ; they were above the roofs of almost everything. There were two sleek, glass-topped desks against the windows, and bookshelves lining one wall. The opposite wall had a frosted-glass door, which was open. The room was smattered with starktech- laptops and tablets on the desks, a _mirror_ with its _own operating system_ , and, according to a notice on the wall, voice activated lights.

“...Red. Green. Brighter.” Harley told the ceiling. The lights responded. It was the dumbest little novelty. But it was still _great_.

Harley may or may not have spent the next half hour geeking out over technology like a little kid while Peter unpacked. Everything had open code, which was an adventure to poke around in. He programmed the mirror to skype and to call Peter _Spider-brat_.

He was in the middle of teaching the wardrobes to tap out a percussive version of _La Cucaracha_ when they were called, by a mysterious robot voice in the ceiling, to dinner.

“You coming?” Harley asked. Peter/Spider-man was hunched over his laptop on the bed farthest from the wardrobe. He shrugged.

“Maybe?” He said. “Are we allowed to eat in our rooms?”

“I’m not bringing you food,” Harley said. “And we only have one keycard.”

“I never asked you to.” Peter closed his laptop. “I’m not an asshole. D’you think I need shoes?”

“You’re _weird,_ ” Harley said, completely honestly. “You probably need shoes. Please wear shoes, actually.”

Dinner was served cafeteria-style. The only difference between eating at baby genius camp and eating at middle school was the shape of the tables.

Harley watched in mild confusion as Peter skipped the hot food entirely, grabbed some protein shakes from the fridges, and bolted.

He was so _weird_.  

And he’d just committed the cardinal sin of summer camp: He’d left Harley alone. To socialise with random science kids.

He’d probably get in trouble for eating in the room, anyway.

Harley got lasagna and was waved over to a table almost instantly. A dark-skinned girl with fluorescent pink hair was making clear eye contact, waving both hands.

“I know you!” She blurted. “Kind of! Harley! Come sit with us!”

Harley recognised her, sort of.

“I’m June Schultz, do you remember me?” She asked, as he set his tray on the table and sat next to her. “I was in your fourth grade class. But only for like a month. My uncle works here. Guys, this is Harley Keener.”

The table’s other occupants did little half-waves. A tiny girl with dark hair and overalls, who was practically in June’s lap, she was so close. A boy who couldn’t have been older than 10, who had a book on string theory open next to his plate. An older boy, who was maybe Harley’s age, and looked almost exactly like the tiny quantum physicist.

And he couldn’t talk to _any_ of them. Because, Spider-man.

Goddamn Spider-man and his goddamn spider-secrets.

“This is Kim, and Danny and Josh.” June said, grinning. “Kim’s my...roommate. Danny and Josh are brothers. I like your hair!”

“I like yours,” Harley said. He’d been growing his out; it almost reached his shoulders. June’s was cropped very short.  “Very… pink.”

“Do you have a roommate?” the book boy- Josh- asked. “‘Cause if you don’t, I wanna share with you. Danny is the worst roommate _alive_.”

“I have a roommate, sorry.” Harley said. Josh pouted. “He’s just... _weird._ ”

“It’s science camp.” Kim said. “There’s gonna be _crazy_ people. Like _June_ , for example.”

June giggled, un-offended.

“Oh, you have _no idea_ ,” Harley said.

When Harley got back from dinner, Peter was sitting on the floor outside, texting furiously.

“What the hell?” Harley asked. “Why?”

“Maybe because _you have the keycard_?” Peter said. “Because we only have one? Because Mr.Stark is terrible at planning and thinks we get along?”  

“No, why didn’t you just eat in the cafeteria with everyone else?” Harley asked, unlocking the door. He really didn’t get why Peter was so _bitchy_ all the time. “Do you like, digest things outside your mouth? Like spiders do? Can you not eat solids? Is that what’s up with the protein shakes?”

“No, and _gross.”_  Peter said, stepping through the door. “I just don’t like crowds.”

“You’re not gonna make friends if you hide in our room for the entire camp…” Harley pointed out.  

“I’m not here to make friends,” Peter said. “I have a _job_ to do, in case you didn’t notice?”

He kicked off his shoes, and pulled off his shirt. Ending halfway down his wrists was…

“Oh, _cool_ .” Harley blurted. “What’s it _made_ of?”

He grabbed Peter’s wrist, fingered the fabric of his suit. Peter had _weirdly_ warm hands, he noticed.

“Don’t _touch_ me.” Peter ripped his hand away, then shed his jeans. He fished the gloves and mask out of his pillowcase, put them and his webshooters on. “And don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

He walked over to the window, and stepped out into free-fall.

This was going to be an...interesting summer.


	2. For your face, your voice, your clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's turn to have a bitchfit :D

Peter was going to kill his roommate.

It was six in the morning and the room was making noise. All of it. There were slamming drawers, _loud_ music and rattling blinds; a stew of sounds that would be bad enough on their own. The cacophony was _vibrating_ in his bones.

The lights were going _crazy_ , strobing through a rainbow of colours bright enough to glare through his eyelids. He’d been awake for less than a minute and he already had a headache.

Peter pinned his pillows over his head and tried to think straight.

Everything was happening too much. Thinking any sort of clearly was a lost cause.

Harley’s feet hit the floor, which gave a long, _grating_ creak. He pattered across the room, taking uneven steps. There was more noise.

Running water. Screeching alarm. Electric toothbrush.

The wardrobes stopped.

Bathroom door; slamming. Shower curtain rings rattling; shower with the water pressure way on high.

“Alarms, off.” in Harley’s stupid, grating, not-quite-broken voice.

The noise _finally_ stopped. The _rave lights_ didn’t.

Harley Keener was going to die. Who named their kid _Harley_ anyway? What was _wrong_ with rednecks? Did his mother really carry a kid around inside her body and hold him in her arms for the first time, and say to herself “ _Wow, I love this baby, I should name it after a motorcycle.”_

“Lights, off.” It finally occurred to him that the lights might not be voice-locked. The lights switched off, _thank god_.

Peter had gotten roughly two and a half hours of sleep, between Harley and patrol. He did _not_ appreciate being woken up and immediately thrown into intense sensory overload.

Harley continued _clattering_ around. He dropped a bottle of shower gel, _stomped_ everywhere, commanded then yelled at the wardrobe.

Peter threw a pillow at him.

“Shut _up!_ ” He yelled. “It’s _early_!”

“Morning, Spider-man,” Harley said, _stupidly_ cheery. “How was the… Spidering? Spider-manning? Vigilante justice?”

“If you don’t shut up I’ll stick you to the side of a building and leave you there.” Peter mumbled into his _other_ pillow.

“You’re _really grouchy_ , you know that?” Harley said.  “Are you nocturnal? Some spiders are nocturnal right?”

“I’m _annoyed,_ is what I am.” Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I need more _sleep_ . Breakfast isn’t even until eight. Why are you _up_?”

“I just like being up early,” Harley said, grinning like a maniac. His hair was still damp. “There’s _science_ to be doin’!”

“I know you’re like, ten,” Peter said. “And you’ve not...seen the hardships of the real world yet, but this...this is ridiculous.”

“I’m _thirteen._ ” Harley said. “How old are _you_ ? You’re eighteen at most, ‘cause you’re here, _so_ …” Harley drew out the final word.

“Fifteen _._ ” Peter said, without thinking. “Older than you.”

“You’re a little _young_ to be a superhero,” Harley said, starting the infamous debate. Peter _hated_ the debate. “Ooh, are you a child soldier? Technically? Are your parents letting you do this? Can you still get grounded?”

“You’re a little _annoying_ to be at smart-people camp.” Peter shot back. “And my parents are fine with this so... _shush_.”

“Don’t _shush_ me.” Harley said, finally putting on a shirt. “I’m a scientist, I’ve got _questions_.”

The shirt he was wearing was one of Peter’s shirts. Peter’s _I went to Berlin and all I got was this stupid t-shirt_ shirt, which Tony had bought him so he could travel home like a civilian.

“Take _off_ that shirt.” Peter said.

“Why, _Peter_ ,” Harley fake-gasped, a hand to his chest, “We’ve only just met!”

“I hate you so much right now,” Peter said. He was too irritated to deal with Harley. “Fine, keep my shirt. Which is mine, and, y’know, probably doesn’t actually _fit_ you?”

He was also absolutely _starving_ , because he hadn’t eaten anything for about ten hours, and his hyperactive metabolism really didn’t like that. _Really_ didn't like that.

“Calm _down_ ,”Harley said, and Peter felt a little stupid for being so sentimental about a _shirt_ . “You’re _so cranky_ today. What’s wrong?”

“It’s like, six in the _fucking morning_ . Also, y _ou_ ,” Peter flopped back on his bed, giving up on his shirt. The mattress was miraculously soft.“Your existence is... _ugh_.”

He ended up falling back asleep. Harley woke him up for breakfast by activating the alarm again, because he was a little psychopath.

The cafeteria was full of a hundred-odd ten to eighteen year olds, which meant it was two things: loud and gross. The air smelled like cooking grease and greasy skin and low-quality scrambled eggs. Peter got in, got poptarts, and got _the hell out of dodge_.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ people, or that he had some kind of vendetta against proper nutrition. He just didn’t like crowds. Or _tweenagers_. If twelve-year-olds now were anything like he’d been when he was twelve, he didn’t want to talk to them. Ever.

He was maybe halfway back to his room when he was _ambushed_.

“Office.” Tony Stark _apparated_ behind him. “ _Now_.”

Peter followed him, trying and failing to unwrap the poptarts as they went. He was _probably_ in trouble, somehow, but if his world was going to crumble, he wanted to eat his processed sugarcarbs first.

“Look,” Tony said, shutting the door. “I know you don’t _like_ Harley, in particular, but you should be nice to him. Do you understand- wait, did you take a _whole box of poptarts_ from the cafeteria?”

They were standing in front of a wall of windows. The sun was out.

“There was nothing else I could take with me!” Peter protested, squinting in the bright light. “ And I _am_ nice to Harley...kinda.”  

He set the poptarts on a conference table, feeling slightly guilty. Other people probably wanted unfrosted blueberry toaster pastries, too.

“Peter, Harley is…”

Peter was waiting for _my son_ , or something similar. An _excuse_ to share secrets.

“A hope.” Tony settled on the most confusing phrasing possible. “Well. He’s _smart_ , Peter, I don’t think you get that. The kid is an engineering genius. I don’t need you antagonising him.”  

There was A.I in every room, of course. Nanny-cams. Watching.

“I’m not _antagonising_ him,” Peter said. “He’s just... _irritating_.”

“My point _is_ ,” Tony said, looking worryingly serious. “Harley’s probably going to be working very close to us, very soon. You’re going to need to learn to _cooperate_.”

“Okay,” Peter’s hands were starting to shake, just a little. He needed to have eaten five hours ago.“Is this...a foundation thing? Is he just… streamlining into this?”

He’d complain about favouritism, but that would be hypocritical.

“Something like that. In stages,” Tony said.  “You read up on his work. And maybe let him read up on yours, when the time comes.”

“No!” Peter said. “I can’t. He can play with my cover projects like everyone else.”

“For now,” Tony shrugged. “But he really, really wants should this. I’ve never _seen_ a kid so committed. Not even you.”

That stung. That stung a _lot_.

“I'm still not letting him touch my webshooters,” Peter said. He had to hang on to something. “Not for like...five years. If he's still around when he's a legal adult, _then_ he can touch my webshooters.”

“If that’s what you want, fine,” Tony answered. “I’m just... I don’t know. Warning you.”

Peter left that room with one goal.

There’d been some competition before, but now it was cemented.

He _had_ to outdo Harley Keener.


	3. Every little trait however small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: lots of blood in this bit. I'm not even kidding it's everywhere.

Harley woke up to a horror movie. 

There was something warm and wet and coppery, dripping on to his face. 

Blood. Definitely blood, dear god. A drop of it splashed just below his eye and trickled down his cheek, smelling of salt and iron. 

Harley opened his eyes. On the ceiling, a dark shape with huge, white eyes. 

“Fuck!  _ Fuck! _ ! Lights, lights, holy  _ shit _ !” He shouted, and the lights flared on.  

“Shhh!” Suddenly perched in an impossible, contorted position in the corner, Spider-man raised a finger to his lips and hissed. “Shut up! People are  _ sleeping _ .” 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Harley said. “Peter- what the  _ hell _ . Why. Why are you bleeding? Why are you only just getting back at-” he glanced at the digital clock. “ _ Three  _ in the morning? Why! Why  _ all of these things?” _

“‘Cause I’m Spider-man.” Harley couldn’t see Peter’s eyes, but he knew from his tone of voice that he was rolling them. 

“You bled on the  _ ceiling _ . And  _ me _ , this is  _ disgusting. _ ” Harley wiped his face on his blanket, because it was already stained anyway. “I’m gonna get weird zoonotic diseases. Like, spider-hepatitis or something.  _ Ew. _ ” 

“Spiders don’t even  _ get  _ hepatitis!” Peter slowly climbed down the wall, leaving a trail of bloodied hand and footprints. 

“Dude.” Harley was starting to wake up properly. “You really fucked up the room, you know that? It looks like a demon was in here.” 

“What?”  Peter asked, then actually looked around. “Oh. Oh no. I, yeah, that’s bad.” 

There were intermittent hand-prints and streaks of blood across the ceiling from the window. 

“Why are you bleeding so much?” Harley asked. “Are you okay?”    
“I just got a bit stabbed,” Peter shrugged. “Nowhere important.”  

“You got  _ stabbed? _ ” Harley almost  _ shrieked  _ it; his voice cracked in the middle of ‘stabbed’. “And you’re not… doing anything about it? You-  I’m telling Tony.” 

He half-fell out of bed, tangled in his sheets.

“No!” Peter hissed, “I’ll be fine! I have a healing factor!”  

“We need...uh,” Harley was so many kinds of unprepared to deal with this. Who could even stab Spider-man? “An incident report? I don’t know? To tell your parents? You bled on the  _ ceiling _ . There’s gotta be paperwork about that.” 

He didn’t know much about stab wounds, but he was pretty sure you had to at least get first aid. 

“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” Peter said. “I’ll just…y’know. Stitch myself up and wait. I heal quick. Superhuman quick.” 

“There’s  _ blood _ ,” Harley repeated. “On the  _ ceiling. _ And lots of other places, actually- but, but,  _ you could die _ . Being stabbed can definitely make you die.”

Peter took off his mask, probably exclusively to show off the momentous eye-roll he did. 

“Harley, I’m  _ fine _ ,” He said. “I get stabbed on like, a weekly basis. I’ve been  _ shot _ . It’s like, a workplace hazard. I know what I’m doing.” 

Blood was oozing from at least three places on his stomach and a cut on the side of his thigh. His lip was split, and a dark bruise was spreading around one eye.

“You look like shit,” Harley fumbled for his phone in the bedsheets, and found it under his pillow. “So shit. Also if you’re gonna like, sew back together all your  _ gaping wounds  _ we should maybe talk to someone with actual medical qualifications? ‘Cause I do  _ not  _ want to be the guy who didn’t tell people when Spider-man got  _ stabbed to death. _ ” 

Peter webbed his hand to the headboard. 

“ _ Don’t _ interfere,” He said. 

He went into the bathroom, still trailing blood, and shut the door.  

That left Harley with two choices. 

He could either: 

  1. Scream bloody murder and get help for his reckless asshole spider-roommate, or
  2. _Not_ scream bloody murder, and probably not die in some stupid spider-themed way. 



He went with the second option, and tried to wriggle his hand free. It worked exactly  _ not at all _ . The webbing was sticky, and tough, and...tepid. 

He was aware that Peter used mechanical shooters, but he’d never seen him actually  _ manufacture  _ the webbing. It’d take a huge amount of resources to synthesise, and a lot of money, probably, so...

“Oh  _ god _ .” He whispered. “ Ew, ew,  _ ew _ .” 

He stabbed at his phone screen with his thumb, but couldn’t get the range of motion to unlock it. In a lapse of judgement, he tried to pull it off with his free hand, which got stuck. 

“Peter!” He yelled. 

“Shut-  _ Ah, fuck _ \- be quiet!” Peter yelled back. “I’m  _ suturing  _ here!” 

“Where does your webbing  _ come _ from?” Harley asked. “Do you have ass-spinnerets like a normal spider? ‘Cause that’s  _ really gross  _ if you do! Please get your asswebs off me!” 

“The webs come from my  _ wrists _ , you’ve  _ seen  _ it!” Peter yelled back. “And spiders have spinnerets on-  _ ouch-  _ on their abdomens! I know you only have, like, a seventh grade education, but you could do your research before you insult me!” 

“I still don’t want it on my body!” Harley tried to free his hands again. 

Peter limped out of the bathroom, pulling on pyjama pants as he went. He  _ technically _ had stitches, in the sense that there was thread and stitching involved. The smallest wound was still open.

“You  _ touched _ it?” He asked. “Your hand was stuck to your bed with sticky stuff and your conclusion was,  _ oh I had better touch this with my other hand _ ? How are you at nerd camp, again?” 

“Oh, right,  _ I’m  _ the stupid one,” Harley said. “Mister  _ Oh yeah I just got a bit mortally wounded it doesn’t matter. _ Please get me out of your gross body fluid. And stop bleeding on the...everything. Not necessarily in that order.” 

Peter scowled, grabbed a pencil and stabbed it through the webbing, winding it around the pencil like a cobweb. 

“Do you know if we have steristrips around?” he asked, leaning against the wall. “Or, uh. Gatorade? I think you're supposed to drink Gatorade after you bleed a bunch.” 

“There's a vending machine at the end of the hall.” Harley said. “I'll go if you give me money and promise to not do this again.”

“Get me Gatorade or I will bleed on everything you love.” Peter threatened. He paused for a second.“And also snacks.” 

“Okay, jeez.” Harley scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “But if I get in trouble for being up at fucking-stupid o’clock in the morning, I'm blaming you.”  

He darted down the hall in his iron man pyjamas, trying to be quiet. 

There were eight flavours of Gatorade, so Harley bought his favourite: Purple. 

The machine took three tries to take his ten dollar bill. 

There was something  _ massively _ surreal about it; buying Spider-man Gatorade and junk food at three in the morning. The lights were all dim, except for the vending machine. It glowed. 

Fucking Spider-man. Always...spider-manning. 

Harley was exhausted. He let his forehead fall against the bouncy ‘glass’ of the machine, and waited for the  _ thunk _ of the drink falling. 

_ Snacks _ was a really imprecise description, so he figured that Doritos and Reese's cups would do. That way, if Peter didn’t like them, he could eat them himself. 

He really hoped Peter didn’t like them. 

When he got back, Peter was attempting to seal a stab wound with a mesh of Band-Aids, which was up there with the worst ideas he'd ever seen. He was also getting blood everywhere  _ some more _ , because he didn’t mind sleeping in a murder scene. 

“I brought you Doritos.” Harley said. Peter made bloodied grabby-hands for a bag, then sluggishly opened it and tipped about half of the bag into his mouth. “Are you gonna, like, be okay? And not die? ‘Cause I’d  _ really like _ if we could like, get your blood off the  _ actual entire room _ and go to sleep.” 

Peter shrugged. 

“I dunno,” he said,spraying Dorito crumbs. “I usually heal from stuff like this pretty easily. I’m, uh, kinda spacey right now. Give me like...time to get...y’know. Energy back.” 

Harley stifled a yawn. 

The sheer  _ volume  _ of blood that had gone from inside Peter’s body to on the ceiling/sheets/carpet had to be dangerous; the smell alone was making Harley woozy. 

In what world did it make sense to  _ avoid  _ medical attention when you got stabbed?

“Are you like...bleeding out? Is this what dying of blood loss looks like?” He asked. “‘Cause you have done a  _ lot  _ of bleeding. Should I call someone?” 

“Uh…” Peter thought on it for a second. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d  _ know _ if I was dying.” 

“I don’t wanna sleep in the aftermath of Texas chainsaw massacre. And I don’t want your blood on my hands. Metaphorical blood,” Harley said. “ I already have  _ literal  _ blood on my hands because  _ you  _ don’t understand what a biohazard is.” 

Peter just rolled his eyes, like it didn’t matter.

And he’d thought  _ Tony _ was bad. 


	4. Makes my very flesh begin to crawl, with simple utter loathing

Peter didn’t go down for breakfast after waking up in a room that looked like the aftermath of texas chainsaw massacre. Partially because he had to do something about that, partially because he’d missed breakfast and most of lunch. Harley Keener, professional annoyance, had let him sleep in. 

Which would have been great, if he could sleep that long.

Peter half-rolled out of bed, feeling seven kinds of gross. The heathered carpet was plush under his bare feet, crusted with blood in places.

That was probably  _ very  _ expensive carpet. 

Which was now completely soaked in his weird DNA.

This was a Call-Mister-Stark type issue, but that would mean getting yelled at for getting stabbed in the wee hours of the morning and breaking the stay-in-your-room-after-lights-out camp rule. 

And Tony would probably tattle to Aunt May that he was running around Spider-manning at two in the morning, and then they’d have to have the stupid  _ be-back-by-midnight-you’ll-mess-up-your-sleep-schedule  _  v.s.  _ Superheros-don’t-need-curfews  _ argument again. 

Blood dripped around his feet as he showered, none of it fresh. He peeled off his netting of band-aids. Nothing had healed much yet, and he was absolutely starving, to the point of getting slightly dizzy- his body didn’t have the energy to put itself back together. His healing factor was trying its darnedest anyway. 

He was toweling his hair dry when Harley  got back, and frisbee-tossed a crunch bar at his head. It bounced off his wrist and fell on the floor. 

“Tony says we can move to a different room,” Harley said. “And also you’re, uh, in trouble for not doing anything about getting  _ actually stabbed _ . And, I quote,  _ bleeding on carpet that cost more than your house. _ And,  _ ohmygod _ , staying out past your  _ curfew _ . You have a curfew? That’s friggin’  _ hilarious _ .” 

Harley grabbed his DS off a shelf and flopped onto his bare mattress. He’d stripped the bed; the sheets were in a crumpled mess on the floor. 

“My parents want me to have one,” Peter said. “Tony thinks it’s dumb.” 

“Okay, but, still,” Harley said, shit-eatingly grinning. He mimed talking into an earpiece. “Yeah, hi, Captain America? I know you wanted me to help you fight evil spies, but I can’t- I know the world is in peril, but my bedtime is ten thirty and my mom says I can’t go. Sorry.” 

“You can’t make fun of me for being fifteen,” Peter protested. “You’re literally, like, twelve years old. You can’t legally have an instagram. Shut up.” 

“I’m not making fun of your age, I’m making fun of your  _ immaturity _ ,” Harley said, bordering on giggling. “ Do crime rates spike if you get grounded? Breaking news! New York superhero not allowed out past nine until he gets his grades up; has reportedly been listening to MCR and sulking for past few hours in protest!” 

“I’m gonna feed you to all the tarantulas in the city.”  Peter said. He sat down on the floor and opened the crunch bar, because he was getting  _ really _ woozy. “I can summon spiders. So I will, if you provoke me. Does the vending machine have milkshakes?”

He had never enjoyed chocolate more in his life. He was in corn-syrupy, crunchy heaven. 

“Dude,” Harley said. “You are _ crap _ at eating for your metabolism. Actual sugary stuff will just make you crash.” 

“Since when are you a nutritionist?” Peter asked through a mouthful of chocolate. He probably wasn’t making a good case for himself, considering his recent snackfood-based diet, but he wasn’t going to let Harley win. 

“My sister’s diabetic,” Harley said, all irritating superiority. “I know these things.” 

“I’m a superhuman.” Peter said. “You know jack shit about me.” 

“I know you get  _ real  _ cranky when your blood sugar gets low,” Harley said. “And that probably wouldn’t happen if you ate like, complex carbs. Like...oatmeal, I dunno. Bread.” 

“Doritos are a complex carb,” Peter protested. He was Spider-man.He shouldn’t have to put up with this. “And you are not my mom. You’re a stuck-up sixth grader. Why do we have to share a room, again?” 

“ _ Seventh _ . And ‘Cause Tony  _ trusts  _ me,” Harley said. “Actually, we should go downstairs. There’s pasta. You like pasta, right?  Also, I really don’t like the  _ recent murder  _ aesthetic of our room.” 

“I have a crunch bar  _ right here _ .” 

“Do you eat bugs?” Harley asked. “Is that why you never get actual meals? ‘Cause you just eat junkfood and bugs?” 

And that was how Peter ended up sitting in a near-empty cafeteria with his nemesis, eating ravioli and wearing said nemesis's Hawkeye hoodie because none of his clothes were loose enough to wear over open wounds.

“We gotta get  _ separated _ ,” He said. “You’re driving me actually crazy.”

If he got Harley out of the way, he might actually get something  _ done. _ And not be  _ constantly reminded _ that he wasn’t trusted to make decisions with his own secret identity. 

“I totally agree.” Harley was picking apart a chocolate-chip muffin. “We should have a fight.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Peter said. “I can deadlift a truck. I’d  _ hurt _ you, even if it wasn’t on purpose.” 

Harley was wearing an American flag bandana, which wasn’t exactly a testament to his intelligence, but still. You couldn’t live in the world and not know that Spider-Man was freakishly strong. Nobody was  _ that  _ disconnected. Not even in Tennessee. 

“Damn. Drink with me?” Harley asked. “Danny’s got vodka in his room.”

“What the hell, no, that’s  _ illegal _ .” Peter said, then realised how dorky he sounded. “And I’d metabolise alcohol too fast to enjoy it, anyway.”

He’d never actually tried it, and he probably wasn’t allowed to get drunk for science. At least, not without heavy supervision and repeats in triplicate. And it really wasn’t responsible to impair your judgement when you could punch through concrete.

“How does your metabolism work, anyway?” Harley asked. 

“I just have a really high energy output, I think.” Peter shrugged. He was something of a biological enigma. “With the healing factor and the super-strength and athletics and the weird unnecessary spidery stuff. Did you know I make haemocyanin, now? How stupid is that?” 

“Then why don’t you bleed blue?” Harley started up with another of his interrogations. “If you make enough of it to fuck with your metabolism then why can’t you  _ see  _ it?”

“‘Cause I have  _ way _ more haemoglobin,” Peter said. He’d thought they were having a  _ moment _ , with actual science there. When Harley used technical language, it was usually in reference to explosions, slightly different types of explosions, and abusing the power of explosions. “ _ Duh _ .”

“Wow, I just  _ love  _ it when you’re condescending,” Harley said. “One of the older guys has edibles.”

“Edible whats?” Peter asked. 

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Harley said, with an increasingly condescending smile. “The THC kind. We could kiss?”    
“ _ What _ ?” Peter almost choked on his pasta. His plastic fork snapped in his hand. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by the kissing thing or the drugs thing.“Why?” 

“Don’t worry, I’d rather make out with an actual tarantula.” Harley clarified. “But they’ve been splitting up couples, and you’re too scared to fight me. And the staff would probably get scared if we  _ hugged  _ with intensity, so it’d be really easy to freak them out with a rumor.” 

“But you’re  _ thirteen. _ ” Peter protested, trying to adjust his grip on the intact half of his fork. Tony stark had basically infinity dollars, and he’d still given them middling-quality plastic cutlery. Next year, Peter was bringing his own.

“So? You’re  _ fifteen _ ,” Harley said. “Jeez, Petey, do you not have the two-year rule up here? Nobody’s gonna care about our  _ ages _ .”

“If it doesn’t work, we quit immediately, okay?”  He said.

“Of course.” Harley answered, slowly shredding his muffin. “I don’t think we’ll have to actually _ do anything _ , just get people talking. We have like a hundred teenagers and at least two vindictive lesbians at our disposal.” 

“Vindictive lesbians?”  
  
“June and Kim got split up.” Harley explained. Peter realised that he was picking the chocolate chips out of the muffin, which was wasteful as all hell. “They’ll be like  ‘Hang on! Harley and Peter are clearly at it like rabbits, why do _they_ get to room together? Misogyny! Someone’s gonna get spider-chlamydia! You just hate us ‘cause we’re girls! Stop this immediately!” 

He dramatically waved his hands as he spoke, to demonstrate the hypothetical lesbian retaliation. 

“Spiders don’t get chlamydia.” Peter was irrationally offended by the spider-based insults, and he knew it. For whatever reason they just  _ bugged _ him. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Harley said, popping more chocolate chips in his mouth. “You’re a  colossal virgin.” 

“And you’re  _ not _ ?” 

“You’re like, victorian-lady prudish though.” Harley continued in his muffin defiling. He seemed to have run out of chocolate chips. “I’ve at least had  _ girlfriends _ . And I know what edibles are. You  _ gain  _ virginity every time you talk. You’re such a virgin that people around you are re-virginised by mere proximity.” 

“For one, you can’t prove that, and for two,” Peter said. “I’m a superhero. Chicks dig superheroes.” 

“You just referred to them as  _ chicks _ . Even if that was ironic, no way you’ve had a girlfriend,” Harley said, balling up his muffin wrapper. “Anyway. Finish your pasta. Operation love-bite is a go!” 

“We are  _ not  _ calling this operation love-bite.” 

“You can’t stop me _ , _ ” Harley sing-songed, smirking. “Let’s go freak people out with PDA in the robotics labs.” 

He didn’t even finish his sentence before Peter regretted agreeing to it. 


End file.
